And Then There Was One
by Obiwanlivesforever
Summary: They started as twenty-four and must dwindle to one. Among their number is Nancy Drew. Will the girl detective's cunning and wit be enough to keep her alive in this deadly game, or will she fall like the rest? Crossover between the Hunger Games and the Nancy Drew computer game series. AU; multiple POVs; will include character death and major spoilers for the video games.
1. Weigh Your Chances

**Hello all, and welcome to my latest FanFiction! I've had the idea for a Nancy Drew/Hunger Games crossover in my head for a couple of months now, and I'm so excited to get it started! But first, some important information: **

**This is an AU in which the Nancy Drew game characters are teenagers living in the districts of Panem. Therefore, while you don't *need* to know about the Nancy Drew computer games to enjoy this story, it won't make much sense if you don't know the basics of the Hunger Games universe. In addition, because of its AU status, I've taken some liberties with how the characters are represented – for example, Nancy does not know all of the other tributes, and their ages have been changed. However, I've tried to stick as closely to canon as possible. **

**This story will be in multiple POVs, meaning we will see the games from the perspective of all twenty-four tributes. Nancy herself will still be the main character, but definitely won't appear in every chapter. **

**As the description says, there will be a lot of character death, so if you don't care for blood and violence, this probably isn't the story for you. Nothing will go beyond a T-rated level, though. **

**Regarding spoilers: the culprits from the games Secrets can Kill, Stay Tuned for Danger, Message in a Haunted Mansion, Treasure in the Royal Tower, Ghost Dogs of Moon Lake, Danger on Deception Island, Last Train to Blue Moon Canyon, White Wolf of Icicle Creek, Shadow at the Water's Edge and The Captive Curse will be made obvious in the story (the latter two less so). In addition, lesser plot points and the solutions to puzzles in nearly every game will also be revealed. If you have any specific questions about spoilers, please PM me and I will be happy to let you know.**

**Please keep in mind that I am a slow updater, especially as I have university to keep me busy. I am planning to have at least the intro chapters pre-written so they can be uploaded once a day or once every two days, but after that, don't expect updates more frequently than once a week at most. I want to let readers know what they're getting into so they won't be disappointed. **

**Whether you're a Jabberjay or a member of the Clue Crew, or both, or neither, I hope you enjoy reading this story! **

~~0~~

**_Nancy Drew, 16, District 9_**

Hundreds of identical stern faces glower down at my friends and I as we wind our way towards the city centre. Each sign, screen and banner from here to the Justice Building bears the image of Coriolanus Snow, the new president of our country of Panem. The fact that this year's Hunger Games coincides with his rise to power has not escaped the attention of the Capitol or their cronies. Even at our vantage point a block from the town square, we can see government officials adjusting ribbons and flowers on the stage as Mayor Scallari unrolls the long Treaty of Treason.

"I hope she'll stick around after the reaping," says my friend Maya, fingering her notepad. "Otherwise this whole interview thing is a bust."

"For an intrepid reporter like you?" I nudge her with a hint of a grin. "Don't worry, scoop. If I know you, you'll get that story in no time."

Maya doesn't respond beyond a strained smile, so I don't press the subject. I know how much this means to her. She's almost single-handedly responsible for District 9's only high school newspaper, and even though it's usually subjected to quite a bit of censorship before the final product can be released, Maya's proud of it nonetheless. In exchange for letting her publish, the head of the school board requires her to write at least one piece of government propaganda per edition. This month's article is to be an interview with the mayor about the inauguration of our new President. Maya wouldn't normally be so nervous about pursuing a story, but reaping day is putting us all on edge.

The long line of teenagers gradually filters into the square, where a pair of cold-eyed peacekeepers waits to segregate us by age group. Bess, George and I are pointed towards the sixteens' section, while Maya and Ned are a year older. Maya departs with a weak wave and a suggestion for us to meet up later, but, just like every year, my boyfriend lingers to say goodbye. It's probably unnecessary – what are the chances that either of us are going to be reaped? – but never fails to soothe our nerves a little.

"Be safe," he murmurs, hugging my shoulders. "It won't be you."

"It's all right, Ned." As usual, he seems more worried about this than I am. "Only six slips, remember? I'll be fine."

"I know, but …" His voice drops. "They do rig reapings, you know."

"What, for small fry like me?" I force a brighter smile across my face, hoping to see his own ease up. "_Amateur _detective, remember?"

He sighs, shaking his head. "All right, all right. I trust you, Nancy. Just don't do anything … rash, promise?"

"I promise."

"See you after the reaping, then." His features relaxing slightly, he squeezes my hand and retreats off towards the seventeens' section.

I won't deny that he has good cause to be worried. He's overreacting, of course, but still. Obviously I'm not going to throw myself into the Games for no reason, but I've always felt a bit of an obligation to help those in trouble. It was just a small thing for years – tracking down someone's missing tools, uncovering petty theft, confronting a foreman for withholding a worker's fair wages. Over time, I found myself developing a bit of a reputation as a problem-solver. Then, about six months ago, things escalated. The head of the district's education system contacted me personally for help. A high school student had been found dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Rumors abounded that the murder was connected to a drug-smuggling ring. I eventually discovered this racket went all the way up to the highest level of the police. Head Peacekeeper Dillon tried to kill me. He ended up executed in the square.

Dad and Ned have been paranoid ever since, worried that the Capitol has it in for me. But I can't see that I've done anything they'd consider treasonous. True, the government hadn't exactly stepped in to prevent the drug-dealing, but they were just as glad to be rid of it as the rest of us were. Even if they disapproved, though, I don't think I'd have been able to give up the case. While it had been more dangerous than anything I'd expected, somehow I emerged more rejuvenated than frightened. Solving the mystery gave me a purpose beyond working in the grain elevators or the fields. For the first time I caught glimpses of a life in which I could truly make a difference – not to the Capitolians who rob us of our produce, but to the ordinary people whose problems the government deems beneath their attention.

Mayor Scallari soon finishes reading the Treaty of Treason, and the familiar escort, Simone Mueller, struts across the stage. Clad in her usual pale green, leopard-trimmed coat, with glossy black ringlets cascading to her shoulders, she makes a striking contrast to the masses below. We flinch collectively as a jolt of static crackles from the microphone; her voice, which follows, is no less grating.

"Hello, District 9!" the Capitolian exclaims. "This is Simone Mueller, reporting in for the reaping of the 30th Annual Hunger Games. Panem is watching, and they want to know – who here is excited?"

The obligatory unenthusiastic murmur starts up. George, whose boyish name matches her brash attitude, snorts and rolls her eyes. This earns her an anxious nudge from Bess.

"Be careful!" the blonde hisses at her cousin.

"What, and go along with her drivel? I don't think so."

"Better than getting shot."

"Like she's even going to notice. There's a thousand people here."

Bess closes her mouth sullenly, eyes betraying concern.

"She's right, George," I whisper. Usually I find it's best just to let them bicker it out – they'll get over an argument soon enough if it's kept between the two of them – but it's too risky on reaping day. "Just drop it for now."

George sighs, but doesn't otherwise protest.

Apparently satisfied with the reaction she's gotten – which isn't much, obviously – Simone continues on with her spiel. "In a few minutes, the name of your lucky female tribute will be revealed – and believe you me, every girl in District 9 will be wishing her name was on that slip."

Panicked breathing starts up to my left. Bess's round face is alight with fear, her hands twisting nervously through her thick hair. Their argument all but forgotten, George wraps an arm around her cousin, whispering comfortingly into her ear.

"It's okay … it's okay … it's not going to be you …"

Gingerly stepping through the crowd, I make my way to Bess' other side and stroke her hand. We've done this every reaping, the three of us huddling together in tense anticipation, not daring to move until Simone's announcement breaks the spell. And like every year before, the name won't be mine, and it won't be George's, and it won't be Bess' –

"Maya Nguyen!"

I'm so relieved not to hear one of our names that I don't process it for a second.

Bess freezes; George's grip on her intensifies; but I disentangle myself. Heart racing faster than the crowd will let me move, I struggle my way towards the fence separating our two sections. My gaze darts through the thicket of faces. I can't see her.

"Maya?"

Heads snap towards me, but I hardly notice. Where is she? Where is my friend?

I finally see her just as she emerges from the front of the crowd, supported by Ned. Her slim figure moves stiffly but resolutely, though the white pall of her face betrays terror. I call out again, and her eyes meet mine. Their fear hardens into fortitude. With a curt shake of her head she conveys a message – one I know I can't accept.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

"Nancy, _no_!"

She screams. I don't care. No matter what I promised Ned, no matter what Maya herself thinks, I can't retreat into the backdrop and watch a friend die. The crowd materializes in front of me before I'm even aware I'm onstage. Despite the omnipresence of their stares, all I take in are Bess' and George's horrified expressions, Maya frozen halfway to the stage, and Ned's face twisted in a mixture of heartbreak and betrayal. They're not even the worst. I can't make out my father well, but the sight of him standing at the back of the square with his head buried in his hands is too painful to bear. He's already been through this once before. Now it's me, not mom, who'll break his heart.

"Well, well, well – didn't I tell you?" Simone's enthusiasm has never been so unwelcome. A microphone intrudes into my vision. "And what is the name of our intrepid volunteer?"

The words don't make sense. Bess gives a shrill sob. Maya trembles in place. I can't look at Ned. I can't even think about my father.

"Excuse me, young woman." The escort's voice sharpens. "I believe I just asked you your name."

"Nancy," I mumble. "Nancy Drew."

"No!" Ned scrambles towards the stage, face blazing. Several burly peacekeepers block his path. "She doesn't know what she's doing. Do you, Nancy?"

Maya's stepped uncertainly towards the stage, mouth half-gaping in shock. That, more than anything, confirms my decision. She's plucky; she's smart; but she's contemplative, not impulsive. She takes the time to think things through. Faced with a difficult choice in the arena, she'd hesitate. She'd die.

I can't guarantee that I won't, either. But it's a risk I'll have to take.

Shifting my weight, I root my feet to the cold metal stage. Ned struggles against the barricade. Eyes filled with hurt bore into mine.

"I'm sorry, Ned. But I'm staying."

His protests are cut short by the butt of a rifle. A peacekeeper snaps his fingers, commanding his fellows to cart my unconscious boyfriend away.

"Well, there you have it, District 9!" Simone declares triumphantly. "Nancy Drew, your female tribute for the 30th Annual Hunger Games!" Out of the corner of her mouth, "We'll have to work on a stage name, though. Nancy Drew is so utterly forgettable."

Scattered applause rings hollowly through the square. Maya steps back into the crowd of seventeens, gaze locked on me. Bess buries her face in George's shoulder.

… What did I just do? _What did I just do? _

~~0~~

"_What did you just do?" _

I wince as Maya's hand flashes into the air. Before it can strike, though, it falls to her side and she lunges forward to embrace me. Tears soak into my cardigan. I'm not sure whether they're hers or mine.

"N-Nancy – t-thank you – you shouldn't have-" Her fist clenches against my side.

"I couldn't have let you die, Maya."

"There was no guarantee of that," George responds, though her voice is devoid of any bite. She runs a gentle hand through Bess' hair; the other girl hasn't budged from her curled position on the armchair since they were admitted to the Justice Building. "You never know what might happen in the Games."

"Well then," I can't help but retort, "there's no certainty I'll die, either."

Bess wails at the mention of the word. George shoots me a reproachful glance.

"Seriously, though," I press on. The numbness has begun to loosen its hold, hardening into an indignant determination. "I've got just as much a chance as anyone else. Maybe even more. I beat that peacekeeper last case, in case you've forgotten."

"By pointing an unloaded gun," George counters. "And you had help. But–"

"Yes, I 'had help' – because I figured out _by myself_ who I could trust."

"That's what I'm getting to. There's no 'trust' in the Hunger Games! There's no 'helping!' It's either got to be them or you!"

"Then I'll go it alone!" That's certainly no problem. I've solved most of my mysteries without much help.

"That's not enough. You've got to look out for yourself and no one else. You're not getting out of the arena alive if you do this – this _hero _thing again!"

"Excuse me?"

"You know what I mean!"

We're both standing up now, faces alight with anger and tears, our voices raised to straining point. Everything about this is wrong. I shouldn't be in this room. I shouldn't be headed to the Games. More than anything, I shouldn't be fighting with George. I haven't before, and if this is really as dire as it seems, I can't let myself start now.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice dropping. "I saved Maya's life. You're acting like that's a bad thing."

"It – it's not, Nancy." George releases a deep breath and slides her fingers through her short brown hair. "I just – we just-" Her voice hitches. "We don't want to lose you."

Bess nods vigorously through her sobs. Maya stares, even paler than usual, then in one swift motion tears her notebook in half.

"What – why did you do that?"

"Take a look." Her eyes blaze into mine.

Not sure what to expect, I pick up the ripped pieces of paper and lay them side-by-side on my lap. The questions Maya's written for her interview are scrawled across the page.

"_Do you think President Snow will be an improvement over his predecessor?" _

"_What is your opinion of the recent sudden deaths of President Snow's political opponents?" _

"_Do you believe President Snow will decrease District 9's grain quotas due to recent local food shortages?" _

"_What chance do you think there is that President Snow will end the practice of the Hunger Games? In your opinion, would this have a positive or negative affect on the citizens of Panem?" _

The full implications sink in immediately. "Maya … they could have had you killed for this."

"Yes, exactly!" she exclaims. "It was stupid, a-and rash, and I was just so angry, having to revise the paper all the time, editing out any sort of real opinion – I just wanted someone to say, for once, what they really felt – but I'm not going to do it now. Not when they might take it out on you. I don't care about heroics if they're going to stop you from getting home – and you shouldn't either."

Bess and George voice similar sentiments, and before I know it I'm enveloped in a group hug. The feeling of Bess' body shaking against mine is more than I can take. Tears surge up again, but with them comes increased resolve.

"I can't promise anything. But you know I'll try as hard as I can. I – I love you guys."

Someone raps at the door.

"One more visitor, Miss Drew. The rest of you – out."

Maya hastens to thank me again and again, barely audible over Bess' panicked screams as she's dragged from the room. George squeezes my hand tightly before breaking away, refusing to let herself look back. Once my friends have been removed, the new arrival is admitted and the door slams shut. For the first time since volunteering, I'm looking into the face of my father.

I'd expected to see fury or grief there, but they're only visible as traces, like the damage of a storm recently passed. Overshadowing them is one unmistakeable emotion: fear.

"Dad … I'm sorry." There's not much I can say to apologize for what I'm putting him through, but I have to try. "I was just trying to do the right thing."

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

All of a sudden it's the night mom died. I'm eight years old again and wrapped in my father's arms, with his hands stroking my titian hair and the warm, dusty smell of his jacket all around me, and I have no idea what's going to happen to either of us but I know, somehow, that because he's here _everything is going to be okay, _at least in this moment…

"I'm really going to try, Dad. I can do this. I can take care of myself."

His voice is right next to my ear. "That's what she said, too."

"You're never going to tell me what happened to her, are you?"

He pulls me into a seated position on his lap and stares me in the eye. Earnesty is written into his every wrinkle. "I would if I could, Nancy. But it's not safe, with things the way are now. Just know that she loves you very much, and so do I."

Breathing rapidly through my nose to dissuade further crying, I lean forwards onto his chest. "Where's Ned?"

"He woke up all right, but the peacekeepers wouldn't let him see you. Didn't like him interfering at the reaping. He told me to give you this, though."

From his pocket he withdraws a familiar object. A hand-carved wooden handle, slightly cracked glass pane, the whole thing endearing in its imperfection… It's a magnifying glass, made for me four years ago by Ned when I took my first novice stabs at sleuthing. A perfect district token.

Dad continues, "He wanted me to tell you that he loves you, and that his faith in you is stronger than his fear for you."

I half-laugh, half-sob. Ned's always been so cheesy, but I know that he means every word he says. In fact, can't think of anything more comforting right now than his special brand of sappiness.

"Thanks, dad. Tell him thank you – and that I love him, too."

"I will."

We both start as the door flies open. Several peacekeepers are there, accompanied by Simone.

"There she is!" the escort exclaims. "Well, girl, the paparazzi's waiting. All of them dying to see the brave young woman who wouldn't let her friend steal her spotlight. You know, I think we'll work wonders with that angle. You've got a promising career ahead of you."

Mustering up all my strength, I turn to say my final goodbye, but Simone won't shut up.

"As for that stage name, well, I've got a couple of ideas. Personally, I'm proposing Samantha Quick-"

"I'm proposing you back off."

I don't feel a twinge of regret as I slam the door in her face.

**_Charlie Murphy, 15, District 9_**

I shuffle my feet anxiously over the carpet, trying to focus on how it bunches up between my shoes instead of how close I am to throwing up.

I … I can't believe it. This doesn't feel real. _Is_ it? I'd gotten up this morning trying to pretend this was just any other day, not knowing it would be one of my last. I guess that's what every other tribute thinks when their name comes out of the reaping ball. At least, unlike them, I don't have to deal with the worry about whether or not I'll come home. I already know I won't.

I'm just not Victor material. Average size, average strength, average intelligence. I'm not even that attractive, if the sponsors are going for looks. Same muddy-brown eyes and hair as most people in the district. I'm not much of a fighter, either. I guess I could swing a hammer around or something, but the idea of it colliding with something other than wood doesn't sit right with me. Maybe I'll be able to kill if it's life or death, but going out of my way to attack someone who's stuck in the same miserable situation as I am? I couldn't do that. It's just not me.

Unfortunately, my only other option looks pretty unpleasant, too. I'll try my best, but even if I get out of the bloodbath, it's only a matter of time before someone tracks me down. I suppose I could ally up, but I doubt I bring enough to the table for someone to consider me an asset. I can't even go to my own district partner for help – sure, she volunteered, but when we shook hands she seemed just as scared and defenceless as I am. More to the point, I don't want to rely on anyone else for help. I've been enough of a burden to others already.

Speaking of which, the door suddenly bursts open, admitting the two people I'll miss the most. Abby sweeps in to hug me, while her aunt Rose trails in more solemnly. No Louis, of course. It's kind of hard to come see me off when you've been executed last week for theft. Turns out he'd been behind a string of robberies in our area, including that of our own house. Even tried to pin some of the blame on me. Still, it'd be nice to at least have one more familiar face to say goodbye to.

"It's okay, Abby," I attempt, awkwardly patting her long red hair. "I'll be – well, uh-"

"You'll try your best?" offers Rose, with a brave stab at encouragement.

"Yeah," I say hollowly. "Yeah, that sounds right."

Rose and Abby. I owe them so much. I'd been on the streets for a handful of years, ever since the orphanage got too full and started shunting out some of us older kids. Jobs were easy to find – the Capitol can never have too many underage slaves, after all – but houses, not so much. Rent is pretty high and wages pretty low. I started sneaking into sheds and stables at night until finally stumbling across Rose's root cellar. She and Abby found me out after a while, but not only did they let me stay, they took me on as a handyman as well.

It was a decent life, for the couple of months it lasted. I was able to keep a roof over my head and have a hot meal every day while staying in school and working for a living. Abby and Rose run a boarding house, and believe me, with the district's substandard building materials and all the drunken brawls that go on in the evenings, there's no shortage of things for me to fix up. Louis came in every once in a while to 'help with the finances' – which, as Abby and I liked to say, was code for 'visit Rose.' Over time, we became almost like a family. Sure, Louis royally screwed us over, but at least the three of us were still together. At least…

"Is there anything we can get you as a token, Charlie?" asks Rose. Her face, already so tired, is creased with concern. First Louis and now this. "I could run back to the house if-"

"No, please don't bother." I hold up my hands. "You've already done so much for me – both of you – it should be me trying to make it up to you, not the other way around."

"Nonsense," Rose retorts. A hard edge creeps into her voice. "We only did what any decent person would do. An honest kid like you, out on the streets, all because of some-"

Abby shushes her with a cautious glance at the door. She's right. Rose can be outspoken at times, and we never know who's listening.

"Please, if you do anything," I butt in before Rose can continue, "just take care of yourselves. The peacekeepers are still poking around – don't give them any reason to target you for what Louis did. Don't waste any money sponsoring me. No matter happens" – I have to pause for a second so my voice won't break – "to me, don't do anything that'd get you in trouble. Promise?"

They look at each other uncertainly.

"It'll be a lot easier to focus on surviving if I don't have to worry about you two."

Rose shakes her head dejectedly. "All right, Charlie. We promise. Just – you try and win this thing, do you hear me?"

"I will." For all my other insufficiencies, I've always been a pretty good liar.

"Then we'll do anything," she pats my shoulder while Abby embraces me again, "to make sure we're here for you when you come back."

All too soon, the peacekeeper arrives to announce that visiting time is up. He moves to grab Rose by the arm, but she waves his hand away, stands up straight, and marches out herself. Her spine quivers as she goes. Abby lingers a moment longer, turning back to me as she passes through the doorway.

"You're a good kid, Charlie," she murmurs quietly. "We'll miss having you around."

Looks like I couldn't fool them both.


	2. Choose Your Friends

**A/N: The first twelve chapters are all going to be introductions for characters from different districts, so Nancy won't have a POV again until the Games start. Neither will Charlie, for that matter. Also, would you guys like me to tell you which of the computer games these characters are from (for those uninitiated with the games) or would you rather wait until I post a list of all the tributes in the first chapter of the Games? **

**Thank you to everyone who's read this! **

~~0~~

_**Andy Jason, 17, District 4**_

Sea foam leaps around the prow of the boat, dancing over the ocean's surface and up to splash my face. I lean over the railing to feel more of the spray as the _Whale Chaser _cuts through the waves. Early morning light is strewn across the surface of the harbour, while seagulls glide through the mirror above, their cries welcoming in the new day. And this is a particularly important one. There's a reason why my boat's the only one traversing the harbour right now. Everyone else in the District is busy preparing for the reaping. I probably should be, too, but the chance to get in one last sail is too tempting to resist. It's not every day I can spare the time to get out here all by myself, and what's more, it'll remind me of what I'm fighting to get back to when I'm in the arena.

Yes, I'm going to volunteer. I've reasoned it out more times than I can count, both in my head and to my parents. This is my second-last year to be eligible for the Hunger Games, and if I don't act now, I might never get the chance. Moreover, what better time to volunteer than on the 30th anniversary of the Games _and _the inauguration of our new President? Whichever district wins this year is going to be remembered for a long time, and I'm hoping it's good old Four. Plus, it's not like I have any doubts about my abilities. I'm near the top of my class at the Tributes' Training Centre, so combat and survival shouldn't be a problem for me. And if the arena is water-based, then, hey, bonus!

The blare of a foghorn echoes out across the harbour. Darn it. Only half an hour left until the reaping. Well, I'd better go make myself presentable if I'm to be on national TV today. Tugging at a rope to adjust the sails, I redirect my course to head back to shore.

I almost miss the low cloud of water bursting over the horizon. Dashing to the rear of the boat, I grab a pair of binoculars and adjust the view. Yes, right there, where the bay widens into the sea. A tall dorsal fin pierces the surface. A whale! Even better – an orca, if I'm not mistaken. My favorite kind! What a stroke of luck, to see one right before I leave!

I wave goodbye as it retreats into open water.

~~0~~

After some nagging from my parents to 'stay safe' – as if they still think they can stop me from volunteering – I set off down the coastal lane that leads to the town square. Our house is located on a rock outcropping almost at the mouth of the bay. It's an excellent location for our sizeable fleet of fishing boats to launch from. The best part, though, is the unrivaled view of the sea, which my dad and I have taken advantage of by offering whale-watching tours in our off hours.

You wouldn't think it'd pay very well, but more people than I thought have taken interest. My mom worried that we'd get too tired out working two jobs, which would be a fair point if I didn't enjoy it so much. I've always loved the sea, even more than the average District 4 kid, and my dad's taught me to identify whale spouts and fins ever since I was little. It feels good to share this appreciation with other people. And if we make a buck in the process, hey, that's cool too.

Of course, winning a fortune in the Hunger Games would be icing on the cake.

A figure emerges from one of the nearby houses as I pass by. I try to see who it is, but before we can even make eye contact she averts her gaze and hurries away. It's too late, though – I'd recognize that bobbed red hair anywhere.

"Morning, Katie," I call out cheerfully. "Excited for the reaping?"

She shrugs imperceptibly and quickens her pace.

A bit of a stupid question, I guess. Katie Firestone isn't in the Career program, and I doubt she's interested in seeing who'll volunteer this year. But, hey, I'm just trying to make conversation.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" I try again. "Nice and sunny." When she still doesn't respond, I wait a moment, then cut to the chase. "By the way, have you thought at all about-"

"In your dreams, Andy."

"Come on, it's a perfectly good proposal. Your dad comes to work for mine, our families split the profits, we call it the Jason-Firestone Whale Watching Company, and-"

"If I had a dollar for every time you've said that, you'd be asking to work for my father and not the other way around. The answer's still no. Go away."

She veers down a side street and tries to disappear amongst a small group of other teenagers; however, they retreat almost immediately, leaving her to walk to the reaping alone.

"Fine, then!" I shout after her, keeping my voice deliberately optimistic. "But don't blame me for trying to help out a friend!"

Silly, stubborn Katie. She's a newcomer to the area; moved to the harbour from mainland District 4 about half a year ago. Financial difficulties or something like that. From what I know, the Firestones haven't been doing too well fishing and decided to start up their own whale tours on the side. They might only have one dinghy and limited knowledge of how to sail it, but it's still more competition than my dad – or myself, frankly – can stand. It was our idea first, after all. Instead of just buying them out, though, we're trying to convince them to work for us. Since I go to school with Katie when I'm not training, it's my job to bring up the proposal any time I can. Who knows; one of these days, she might cave in.

Joining up with us would buy them a lot more credibility, too. To a lot of people whose families have fished for a living for generations, land folks who've only had to work in net-weaving or boat-building are a bit of a joke. Poor Katie's had a hard time fitting in at school. She disagrees with the local kids on just about everything and isn't exactly quiet about it. Jenna Deblin, whose parents run the local café, is particularly outspoken against her. I can't remember a day when those two weren't arguing over some trivial thing. If the Firestones would just keep their heads down and partner with my father's business, they'd surely be more accepted here. But, no, they insist on going it alone.

Before I know it, I've reached the town square. The mayor's introduction goes by in a blur; then it's time for the boys to be called. Nobody really listens to the name that's read out; it's the ensuing race to the stage that matters. Every year I can remember, there's been at least one – usually two – volunteers from District 4, and this time I'm going to be one of them.

The escort asks if anyone wants to take the reaped boy's place, and immediately a number of teenagers starts fighting their way to the front of the crowd, myself included. I slip under the ropes separating the seventeens from the stage and dart past the rest of the competition. Someone snatches at the back of my shirt, but I throw a punch in their direction and hurry up the stairs. With a triumphant grin I seize the escort's hand.

"Your male tribute for the 30th Annual Hunger Games is Andy Jason!"

Once the applause – and grumbling from the would-be tributes – dies down, it's time for the girls. Strangely, I can't see any of them tensing in anticipation as the escort approaches the reaping ball. We might not be on the same level as Districts 1 or 2, but our Career program takes the Games pretty seriously, too. Always has, at least as far as I can remember. I muse over this for a moment until the announced name startles me out of my thoughts.

"Katie Firestone!"

Heh. Of all the odd coincidences! I search for her among the shifting crowd, soon enough spotting her pale, frightened face bobbing forwards through the other sixteens. She walks stiffly towards the stage, glancing back repeatedly. Looking for a volunteer, I suspect. Don't fret, Katie; someone'll come along soon enough.

Although, I can't exactly remember any of the females in the Centre saying they had plans to volunteer this year. It's not like girls go out of their way to talk to me, but I think I'd at least have overheard it …

The minutes drag on and on, and Katie's queasy expression intensifies to one of horror.

"We have no volunteers, then?" the escort's clipped voice rings out. "Very well – let us have a round of applause for your female tribute!"

Seriously? _Seriously? _This is my district partner? Katie's no Career. She hasn't spent a day in the Tributes' Training Centre. She'll drag the pack down with her – or worse, abandon the rest of us outright. No, no, we definitely can't have that. I don't know who my other allies are yet, but as highly trained as they may be, we'll need all the protection we can get against other formidable tributes. Everyone knows that the Games with packs of only four or five are the Games without Career Victors. Even if Katie proves completely useless in training, having that one extra person will do a lot to discourage the others from attacking us.

Looks like it's up to me to make sure she stays on our side. No different from home, really. Except that I'll have to be a little bit more successful in the arena than I was here.

I watch her staring numbly out at the clapping crowd. Surely she knows that she has no chance without us. True, she doesn't strike me as a killer, and is probably about as willing to join the pack as her dad was to work for mine, but that was then and this is now. When her life is on the line, I'm positive she'll realize the value of having powerful allies. Not to mention sponsorship, protection, and all the supplies she could hope for. It's not like I'll force her to off any of the other tributes, at least not at first; the rest of us are all plenty prepared for that. No, there's really no reason she should decline to join the pack.

And if she does, well … I'll deal with that when I come to it.

_**Katie Firestone, 16, District 4 **_

The escort presents us both to the crowd and calls for one final round of applause. It's certain, then. No one's going to volunteer. I'm really going to the Hunger Games.

I try to muster up some emotion, fear or panic or determination, but can only grasp at faint stirrings, as if the situation is beyond comprehension. For some absurd reason, all I can think of is the first time I fell off a boat, back when we first moved here, and my ears became filled with water. I could hear my dad calling for me to grab the life preserver, and yet at the same time I couldn't. It's like that, now. I see the audience and hear their clapping and feel my own hysteria in the same way one hears rain on a roof when they're down in a basement.

I'm told to shake hands with my fellow tribute. I do so reluctantly. Andy's still wearing the same irritatingly confident smile as always, in contrast to whatever shock I must have on my face. Is this really the person I have to spend my last couple of days with?

My last days … this is really happening – crap, this is really happening –

Why weren't there any volunteers? I know the Career program hasn't officially been around that long, but there has to be at least someone willing to throw themselves into the arena, doesn't there? Okay, maybe not when you put it that way, but – Andy volunteered, didn't he? And there have to be more, or else they wouldn't make a Training Centre at all, right?

I cast one desperate glance back as the peacekeepers lead me away, just in case some wannabe tribute has had second thoughts. All I see is an ocean of blank faces before the door of the Justice Building slams shut.

~~0~~

By the time my parents leave, it's becoming much harder to restrain my emotions. My voice wobbles so much I don't want to talk for fear of crying, and it takes all the willpower I have not to bolt for the door. I stare dazedly at my feet, jaw trembling as water trails closer and closer to my chin.

What am I supposed to do? How on earth can I even hope to survive this? Mom and dad tried to rouse me with a half-hearted pep talk, but I could see through all its holes even as I nodded in agreement. What difference does it make if I'm on the older side of the age scale, or come from a Career district? I might not be some scrawny preteen, but neither am I strongly-built in the slightest. The traditional Career alliance isn't going to be of much help, either – even if, for some odd reason, they did want me, I wouldn't team up with a bunch of trained killers for anything. On top of all that, I doubt anyone at home, apart from my parents, is going to want to sponsor me. At least not in this part of town.

So, without strength or wealth, what do I have? I'm smart, I guess – more than smart, actually, going by school grades alone. I've always been an eager learner, especially when it comes to sea life or nature. Nautical knowledge is taught to all children in District Four from a young age, even if they live inland. I've memorized tide tables and whale spouts and types of shells, so picking up things like edible plants or tracking tips isn't out of the question. But what use is any of that if another tribute has me at knifepoint?

The door creaks open. I jerk my head up, startled, to see my new visitor. There's no mistaking the short black haircut, bronze skin and piercing expression of Jenna Deblin.

I'm so astonished I almost think I've dreamed her up until she comes closer and sits down across from me, real as the floor under my feet.

"Hey."

"…Hey?" What exactly do you say to your archrival before you're shipped to your death?

She intertwines her fingers absently, not meeting my eyes. "I just felt like I should say that … I don't hate you, or anything."

I raise an eyebrow. "Could have fooled me."

Jenna snorts, then covers it with an awkward cough. "Sorry about that. But it's true, y'know. Yeah, you bug me – and I think you're dead wrong about a lot of stuff – but that doesn't mean I'm happy about, well – this."

"O-okay?" It's unexpected, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't nice to hear…

She shrugs. "I just thought, in a few days a whole lot of people are going to want you dead. I didn't want you to leave thinking I was one of them."

It's Jenna's strange combination of bluntness and sympathy that finally sends me over the edge. My throat constricts and I lurch forwards, hands rising to shield my face from view. Tears well up between my palms and my cheeks. I'm sure the peacekeepers – not to mention the girl who's been my enemy for the past six months – can hear this racket through the thin walls, but it's too late to stop.

Jenna pats my shoulder stiffly. "I'm so sorry, Katie."

I attempt to gulp in some air, but between the crying and the hyperventilation it's not an easy task.

"It's all right. Cry it out. Take deep breaths."

"W-why don't you think there were any volunteers?"

She takes a while to respond. I guess she can't come up with a decent answer, either.

"I don't know," she says eventually. "Just rotten luck, I guess. Maybe none of the female Careers are experienced enough yet and they want to bide their time."

"One minute left," barks a peacekeeper from the other side of the door.

"All right," says Jenna, reverting to her more familiar business-like demeanor, "can you think of anything you can do that might be useful in the arena? Any talents? Beyond arguing, of course."

"Uhm," I force back another sob, "I guess I'm smart?"

"Oh, yeah," she grimaces, "forgot I'm talking to Miss Straight A+ here. Well, you've got that, then. Play it up as much as you can in the interviews. Or go for the opposite and act dumb – then they won't know what hit 'em."

"I guess that sounds good." It's not much more than what I'd already figured out, but somehow it's a lot more meaningful coming from such an unlikely source.

"And then there's the general District 4 stuff – I'm assuming you can tie knots and fish and all that, and hey, if there's lots of water, you've got this in the bag."

"True." Of course, my district partner will have all that on his side, plus training and allies, but he's just one person. I'll still have an advantage over the other twenty-two.

"See, that's the spirit." She hesitates for a moment, as if weighing the tactfulness of what she's about to say – that's a first – then offers, "And, you know, there's always the Career alliance."

My mind rears in alarm. "No. Uh-uh. I don't want – and they'd never let me in, anyways."

"That's not certain," Jenna puts forward. "I know you're not trained, but there's something to be said about having a full pack. Even if you're completely useless, they might want you in just to preserve their image. Keeps up the intimidation factor, and all that."

She's got a point, but the idea is still too risky to consider. "They'd just keep me around until the competition thinned out and kill me then. Besides, I wouldn't want to watch when they … you know." I can't bring myself to say what I mean since it might so soon happen to me, but I hope she gets my drift. "I couldn't stand being a part of that."

"Right, right. I get it." Brief disappointment flits across her gaze, but she hides it quickly. "Well, it's all up to you in the end."

A sharp rap on the door. "Time's up."

Bile shoots back into my throat. Oh no … oh, I don't think I can do this …

Jenna guides me to my feet, giving a worthy attempt at a smile. "Try and come home, all right? Lunch break won't be the same without our debates. Tell you what, I'll make you a fresh cup of clam chowder and we can tear out each other's throats over it when you get back. Er, metaphorically speaking."

"Thanks, Jenna." I can't quite mirror her grin, but at least I'm able to get into the main room of the Justice Hall without collapsing. "It means a lot."

"No problem." She claps me on the back. "I'll be rooting for you. And, hey, better you than that Andy Jason fellow. Guy always gave me the creeps."

I repeat my thanks before she's whisked out the door and I'm forced down a side hallway.

I'm not going to bother trying to sort out all the emotions welling inside me. For all I know, this could be the last time I ever see my home and the people I love. I don't want to waste my final moments here focusing on what comes next. Yet, at the same time, Jenna's visit has imparted a strange sense of hope. Maybe more people than I thought will be cheering me on from the harbour. Maybe it won't just be mom and dad who're waiting for me to come home.

Or maybe that just means there'll be more people to miss me once I'm gone.


	3. Know Your Enemy

_**Tino Balducci, 17, District 6**_

"…and if anyone asks who found it for you, tell them it was Tino Balducci." I flash the Victor a winning smile. "_The _Tino Balducci."

Apparently not too impressed with the fact that I just found her missing locket, she fastens it around her neck and stalks off towards the lounge car. Unperturbed, I smooth my sleek black hair and call at her retreating back.

"Hey, that's okay. Playing hard to get, I like that. Let's do lunch."

Wait, are we all supposed to eat together or something? Before I can think of anything better to say, the door clicks shut behind her.

My district partner, Charleena, rolls her eyes. "Nice job. She simply can't resist."

"What, I'm getting there! I found her stupid necklace!"

"On a counter two feet away from her. After she took it off to change her scarf."

"Whatever." Like I'm going to listen to some chick with her nose buried in a writing book. We've been on the train for hours, and she still hasn't finished scrawling. Let's see how long she lasts in the arena.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a morbid thought. But, hey, it's going to happen anyway. Because I am _winning_ this thing. Sure, I may not have volunteered, but I'm confident enough in my abilities that I might as well have. I'm strong, I'm smart, and I'm good-looking enough to get a few sponsors among the ladies of the Capitol. I guess that guarantees me a target on my back, but that's the price of talent. Whenever a man becomes truly remarkable, everyone else tries to tear him down. I'm sure everyone from fellow tributes to interviewers to late-night comedians will try to ruin my image with vicious lies, but that's fine with me. It's just because they've never done anything quite so impressive in their sorry little lives, and they're jealous.

A few pointless hours of channel-surfing and listening to the scratching of Charleena's pencil pass before the avoxes finally start setting the table for lunch.

"All right, everybody! Come and get it!" hollers the escort, Fatima, barging in from an adjacent car. I make for the seat next to the hot female Victor, but her male counterpart gets there first. Darn. I'm left to sit next to Charleena, while Fatima takes the chair at the foot of the table.

The food's pretty good; definitely better than anything we got back home. There's some kind of cloudy yellowish soup, bread rolls twisted into neat shapes, and grilled slabs of beef we're supposed to put between two buns. The Victors busy themselves piling different condiments atop the meat. Not content to let us eat in peace, Fatima constantly breaks the silence by telling stupid jokes.

"Hey, District 6 is transportation, right? Let me think – ooh, I've got a good one. What's the difference between a steam train and a school teacher?"

Pfft. Like every kid in the district hasn't heard that one by the time they're five. How desperate is this woman for attention, anyway? Capitolian fashion isn't one of my many areas of expertise, but I'm pretty sure their idea of style doesn't include tacky overalls, a floppy ten-gallon hat, and enough makeup to almost completely obscure her features. She's only a bit older than me, but I wouldn't hit on her if you paid me.

"No takers? Come on, Tino? Charleena?" She stares hopefully at my district partner.

"Let me guess." The girl doesn't look up from her journal. "A teacher tells you to spit out your gum, whereas a steam train says, 'choo, choo.'"

I almost laugh at how little the escort picks up on Charleena's obvious disdain. Heck, she seems more encouraged than anything else. "Shucks, girl, you're good! Okay, uh, what do you call a train that-"

"Oh, look, it's time for the reaping recaps," interrupts the male Victor, to the relief of everyone around the table.

My mentor lunges for the remote to crank up the volume before Fatima can get another word in. The familiar Capitol fanfare blares from the TV. Excitement surges through me as the announcers' images are replaced by a sparkling number '1'. Finally, time to see the competition!

The screen cuts to the pristine town square of District 1, where a stream of potential female tributes rushes towards the stage. The two in front tackle each other to the ground, enabling the third to slip past and seize the escort's hand. With a shrill squeal of joy she spins to face the crowd, face enraptured in triumph.

Whoa. Forget our Victor, that girl is stunning. If this wasn't, you know, a battle to the death, I'd ask her out in a heartbeat.

"Look at that babe, there," I say, pointing. "If I weren't in the competition, I'd bet on her. Every guy in the Capitol's going to be lining up to sponsor her."

Charleena eyes me shrewdly over her spoon. "That means nothing. Success is guaranteed by intelligence, not looks."

I wave a hand dismissively. "Don't pull this brainiac crap on me, doll. No rocket scientist ever won the Games."

Her lips curl upwards in a slight laugh. "You've got it in the bag, then."

"Hey!" I jab a finger at her. "You think you're so smart, sitting there and – and – writing in your diary all day. _I _was demonstrating my skills to the Victors."

"Excuse me? 'Diary?'" Her eyebrows shoot up towards her dull brown hair. "This is the first draft of a future bestseller."

"Oh, yeah, you're that romance novelist chick, aren't you?" Now that she mentions it, I vaguely recall her reading aloud at some literature contest in school. "Good luck selling that sappy drivel. I don't think anybody-"

"Children, children," sighs my mentor in exasperation. "Settle down. You can rip off each other's heads soon enough."

Still furious, I grudgingly settle back in my chair. She'll see. They'll all see. Yeah. Just wait for the training center and the interviews. Get me away from these idiots, and the whole country will see that Tino Balducci has what it takes.

_**Charleena Purcell, 18, District 6**_

I sip up the final drops of cream-of-chicken soup and lay my spoon down on its napkin. No sense staying here any longer. I would far rather watch the reapings without having my craft insulted, thank you very much. Rising silently, I slide my chair back into its proper place and head for the rear cars.

"Where you going, girlie?"

I flick my gaze back to the dining table. Tino and the mentors don't seem to have noticed my absence; their eyes are glued to the television screen, upon which the number '2' has materialized. Rather, it's the oddly-dressed escort who's questioned my departure.

"Back to my room. I see no reason to stay."

As if dumbfounded over how I could have arrived at that decision, Fatima cocks her head. I glance pointedly at Tino, who's now assuring our mentors that he could beat the boy from Two with one hand tied behind his back. Some inkling of comprehension dawns on the escort's face.

"Oh, right." A bit of her usual gusto fades. "I see. Well, uh, don't let me stop you."

I eye her strangely for a moment before continuing on my way. She's certainly the most eccentric character I've encountered thus far, though considering the rest of the morons I have to put up with, it's a narrow victory.

The peace and silence of my own room envelops me, and with no distractions but the omnipresent whirring of train wheels, it's almost as if I'm back home in District 6. All at once the blank pages of my notebook beckon that much more. Wouldn't it be nice to escape for just a moment? I have a lot of empty space left to fill, after all, and who knows how much longer to do so…

I flick on the television determinedly. No matter how I feel, I must not waste time. After all, the first stop to completing my story is to evaluate the antagonists in my way.

Once the screen flashes to life, I realize that the reapings are still on District 1. Most likely the bedrooms receive a channel which is slightly slower than that broadcast to the dining car. No matter. Perhaps it is best that I am able to view my competition uninterrupted from the very beginning.

The female Career is every bit as gorgeous Tino described, though I'd use less vulgar terms than he saw fit to. Not that I'd have anything terribly flattering to say, either. Oh no, I can tell from the moment she reaches the stage that this is the kind of woman I despise. Showy, superficial, drowning in wealth yet desperate enough for fame to volunteer anyway. With the way she trills on, I'd be surprised if a clever word has ever come out of her mouth. I'd peg her as a stock rival love interest were she to appear in one of my novels. Easy on the eyes, but little more.

Her partner is largely unremarkable – average build, height, and appearance for a career – apart from the slightly manic glint in his eyes as he reaches the escort's hand ahead of his rivals. Now that's a schemer if I ever saw one. Possibly the lead villain. I'll have to watch out for him.

The careers from Two are the typical glory hounds; the boy cold and stoic, the girl fiery and impatient. A pair of supporting antagonists. Best avoid them as well.

The Threes are a dating pair, small and dark-haired like most from their district, though the boy plays the unexpected hero by volunteering for his girlfriend. The male from Four appears just as eager to be a tribute as his fellow Careers, although his reaped district partner merely looks shell-shocked. A wiry young man with a face lined enough to be forty and a short-haired, goggle-wearing girl hail from Five.

I hit the fast-forward button the instant a gleaming "6" replaces the aforementioned tributes. No need to witness that again.

As with District 3, Seven surprises me by producing another volunteer. The rather heavyset girl practically lunges for the stage. Unlike the boyfriend, however, there is no fear in her expression as she stares out over the crowd. She is joined by a tall black boy with a self-assured stride. The Eights are largely unremarkable – a pretty-boy and a plump, wavy-haired girl, both equally horrified – and the Nines would be as well if the girl wasn't yet another volunteer. From Ten come a ranch hand even I have to admit is handsome and a sturdily-built, tan-skinned girl; both appear startled but determined. With her wildly unkempt hair and deranged expression, the young woman from 11 easily overshadows her district partner. The last are from Twelve; a girl and a regrettably young boy who know each other quite well if their onstage hug is anything to go by.

So the largest threat comes from the Careers, as usual, with the possible exception of the girls from Four and One. Apart from them, the Sevens and Tens all appear rather confident and sturdily-built, and the volunteer among them should be taken especially seriously. As should those from Three and Nine, I suppose, although neither looks particularly dangerous. I'd hesitate to underestimate the District 11 girl. With regards to the rest, I certainly won't trust any of them, but I won't lose any sleep wondering what they've got up their sleeves, either.

"Uh, excuse me? Miss?"

Fatima's voice comes from out in the hallway. I hadn't even heard her knock. I can't think of any acceptable reason to ignore her, though, so I reluctantly slide off the bed and open the door.

"Yes?"

From what I can tell with most of her face buried in makeup, the escort looks ashamed. "Miss, I'm real sorry for what happened back there, what with your district partner and all. I – uh, I guess I should have done something about it before you left, and-"

"It doesn't matter," I reply. I've always known Tino was too self-absorbed to appreciate my talents, and one can hardly expect an escort to make their tributes' short lives more bearable. "I'm perfectly comfortable in my room, anyways."

"Well, uh, okay, then." She pauses awkwardly, then bursts out, "See, it's my first time doing this, and I just didn't want to cause you any problems, seeing as you're our guest and all…"

I regard her curiously. Yes, I should have perceived it right away. Her artless demeanor, her relatively young age, the fact that I haven't seen her at any previous reaping – this is her first year as an escort. She's just as much a stranger to this as I am; perhaps just as nervous. Well, that might be a bit much – Fatima isn't exactly being carted off to her death – but this is probably the most taxing thing she's done in her privileged life.

"As I said, it's perfectly all right." I reach for the door handle, but she still doesn't leave. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I, uh-"

"Yes?" A hint of impatience breaks into my voice.

"You see, I know Tino said he doesn't like all that lovey-dovey stuff, but, well, I'm a bit of a fan of it myself, and I've never met a real-live author before, so even one from the districts is pretty, well, interesting…"

Could it be that my work finds an audience all the way out here in the Capitol? "I suppose I could let you read a bit of my latest novel, if you'd like."

"Whoa, really? I mean, you're on a bit of – uh – a deadline, and I wouldn't want to make you fall behind or anything-"

"It's no big deal," I say, flipping through my notebook. If my time is as limited as I think, losing fifteen or so minutes won't make much of a difference. A wry smile crosses my face. "After all, Capitolian endorsement would certainly boost my ratings."

What can I say? I never thought I'd be sharing my life's work with a girl dressed as an ancient prospector, but I never imagined myself on my way to the Hunger Games, either. Perhaps when – I suppose I should say if – I get back home, I can transform this encounter into some sort of short story. The intrepid young author earns admiration where she least expects it. And if all goes wrong, well, at the very least this can serve as an interesting breather before the finale begins.


	4. Find a Reason

_**Lori Girard, 16, District 1**_

"Lori!" comes the escort's shrill voice. "Time for lunch!"

Letting the silken folds of the blouse slide back into the drawer, I cock my head towards the sound and let out a peeved sigh. Can't she wait five more minutes? Honestly, we're not even off the train yet and already our escort is hackling us about sticking to a proper schedule. For a people so renowned for their glamorous lifestyle, you'd think the Capitolians would have a bit more of an appreciation for leisure time.

Well, unlike them, _I _do. And thank goodness for that. My train car has the best selection of clothes I've seen outside of tribute parades and fashion broadcasts, and until I've perused these wardrobes to my liking, the Capitol will just have to wait.

Not bothering to leave my seated position, I crane my neck back until I can just see the sheet of light coming through the bedroom door. No shadow. Our dear escort isn't here yet.

Unfortunately, she chooses to make her appearance right as I'm trying to choose between an adorable pink-and-white vest and an intricately-jeweled tank top.

"There you are, child!" Iovita bursts in without warning. "I didn't know where in Panem you'd got to. We were all thinking you must've, I don't know, fallen off the train or something-"

I don't dignify that comment with a reply. Really, you didn't think to, like, look in my room at all?

"Well, then, let's hurry to the dining car! Dinner won't eat itself!"

Reluctantly I leave the clothes behind on the bed – the top was gorgeous, but I'm leaning a little towards the vest myself – and follow our escort back down the hall as she continues to titter over her own wit. Her attitude is indescribably irksome, but, at the same time, I might as well grin and bear it. I'll have to deal with a lot more of it if I'm going to win this thing.

Which I will. Yes, obviously, I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't think I stood a chance, but neither would any old career. The difference is that I have a real reason to win.

For my tenth birthday, my father took me on a luxury train tour of Panem, first class. Of course, it wasn't easy to arrange, but Leon Girard is the owner of the biggest diamond company in the district; probably in the country. He snapped his fingers, pulled some strings and I got my wish. It was all very exciting for a young child, even one of my upbringing – I still remember watching the ground sweep by beside me, being served by avoxes in their crisp white suits, feeling the streamlined flight of the cars. Still, the entire time, something felt off. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first, but it hit home after the Capitol party that was supposed to serve as the finale to my trip. The whole thing had opened my eyes to something. Something I'd rather not have realized.

To the people who glanced down their noses at me from the balconies of Capitol apartments, I was no different than a slum-dweller from Twelve. And what would I have seemed to the average person toiling in the factories or fields of the districts? Some dim-witted, fashion-crazed spoiled brat lucky enough to be born into the lap of luxury? For the first time, I cursed my birthright: as an heiress, I was too wealthy and idle to escape the derision of the poor; as a district girl, I could not hope to earn the attention of the rich. To both sides of society, I was nothing more than the daughter of Leon Girard; a footnote of his success. Even at the age of ten, I knew that wasn't enough. I yearned to be known and admired for my own achievements, not for the coattails I had ridden. It just took some time – six years in the Career program, in fact – to make my dream reality.

It's been a long haul, I'll admit, but I'm prepared. I may not look it, with my lightweight build and short blonde bob, but I'm lethal with a lance. In fact, it's probably better if my competition underestimates me. Let them think I'm some star-struck bimbo. We'll see if they agree when I slit their throats in their sleep.

Just keep the blood away from my clothes, please. Sure, I'll break a nail if necessary, but it certainly doesn't mean I'm intending to.

We finally make it to the dining car. With its floor-to-ceiling arched windows and intricately carved furniture, it's even more elegant than the one in the train I rode as a kid. Iovita announces enthusiastically that she's found me – gosh, by the way this idiot goes on, you'd think I'd disappeared or something. The two Victors raise their hands in acknowledgement, while my district partner just continues cutting his meat, looking as murderous as ever. It's really not very becoming. He's no supermodel in the first place, but if he knows what's good for him, he'll at least make the effort to, like, smile for the cameras.

Or not. More sponsors for me.

A little shudder goes through me as I take my seat. Sponsors – that's something I'm not entirely looking forward to. For every Capitolian who sees my true potential, there'll more likely than not be two supporting me for my looks alone. And while it's nice for a girl feel flattered, that's not exactly the kind of recognition I'm looking for.

But, like I said, I'm going to do this. No matter what it takes; no matter how many people I have to kill. When I win, I'll be rich and successful and respected for something _I've _done, not because of how much money my father has. I'll be on every television screen in Panem, from the district hovels to the new President's mansion, and people will call me smart, and resourceful, and courageous even…

I lift one of the finely-crafted champagne glasses and take a delicate sip.

Here's to then.

_**Dwayne Powers, 18, District 1**_

I stab my fork into my steak and saw off another piece.

I can't believe I'm finally here. It's frankly unreal. I've endured eighteen years of training, waiting, and aching for my chance to get on board this train. That's one year too many for my liking. But it'll all be worth it in the end. The reason why is sitting right across from me.

"Enjoying your meal, Dwayne?" asks my mentor carelessly, examining his reflection in the tabletop.

I don't respond.

Last year was supposed to be mine. I'd planned it all perfectly. Seventeen's the opportune age to volunteer. Sixteen's still too inexperienced. Eighteen's your last chance; there's too much risk of getting beaten to the stage. Which is exactly what occurred at the reaping for the 29th Hunger Games. I was outrun, trampled down into the dust, by the very man I'd helped train. And to rub even more salt in the wound, he's still alive.

I didn't take Rick Arlen under my wing because I cared about him. Far from it. I was busy training myself; I didn't need to waste time on some prepubescent pretty-boy. Yet I was confident enough in my skills at the moment to take the offer as a challenge. Impart what you've learned to this kid; if you're truly great, well, maybe he'll be something one day. Or maybe he won't. Either way, the Victor's crown was still my top priority. I practiced day and night, was first in line for all the mock battles, hacked up so many dummies they could have filled a graveyard. How could I have expected to lose it all to a self-absorbed fifteen-year-old who saw Victory as nothing more than a status symbol?

My glare flicks back up to him. He doesn't notice. He never has, of course. He's flirting with my district partner now, blonde hair falling over his shoulders as he leans back casually in his seat.

It's all I can do to contain my disgust. Even before my personal animosity for him began, I knew the man had no talent. Not even all my training had any significant effect. It was luck and sponsorship, rather than any degree of competence, which carried him through his Games. Were it not for his good looks and charm, he'd never have gotten to where he is now.

But that's not even the pinnacle of his betrayal. If he'd just snatched away my best chance at volunteering, if he'd just won without a single word of thanks to the person who made him what little he is, I'd have moved on. Slowly and bitterly, of course, but it wouldn't have to end like it will now. No, his crimes are beyond forgiveness. Rick Arlen didn't just steal my Victory and my reputation. He stole _her._

"So, Rick?" The witless escort leans forward, elbows on the table, to get a better gaze at Arlen's mug. "How's it going with your girl? What's-her-face Jensen? Have you two made up yet?"

"Mattie?" He smirks condescendingly. "You're not getting all your news from the tabloids, are you, darling? I can assure you, any feud the paparazzi may have embellished is ancient history."

"So you're still together?" The excitement on her face is agonizing.

"I think you could let this answer that," he drawls, brandishing a photograph from nowhere. I glimpse half a second of the two cuddling before looking back at my supper.

She was going to be mine. She was _supposed _to be mine. Like two star-crossed lovers on one of those cheap Capitol soap operas, we were destined to be together from the moment I first saw her. But what happened the instant that hotshot Arlen got back from the Games? He snapped his fingers and she jumped into his lap. In stealing what was rightfully mine, Arlen didn't just break my heart. He killed me. He killed Dwayne Powers, and for that, he's going to die.

But, you wonder, why not do the deed then and there? Why go through all the trouble of volunteering for the Games first? I have quite a few reasons, actually. Just because Arlen beat me to the punch last year doesn't mean I've abandoned my dreams of being a Victor. Seeing as the Capitol won't be pleased if they find out I killed their precious playboy, it's best to achieve a lifelong goal before I risk execution. That way, even if I do wind up getting caught, Victory will bring with it a certain immunity. The murder of one beloved champion is bad enough, but the death of another fan favorite right on his heels? They'd never allow it.

Above all that, though, is the truth I've recently come to accept. The fact is, life _is _like one of those cheap Capitol soap operas. There are winners and there are losers; there are villains who have everything handed to them on a silver platter and heroes who rise up against all odds to defeat them. So why not make my triumph the spectacle it deserves to be? I'll ride to my revenge on a wave of glory. Yes, it will be unbearable to be mentored by the man I taught to hold a sword, but those few days will be worth it when I stab him in the back after the Games. In his last, painful moments, I hope he'll realize what I've known all along – he is nothing more than a ladder climber, and those he crawled over on his way to the top are about to knock him down. Then I'll be rid of him, and Mattie will come back where she belongs.

The train begins to slow. Jolted out of my thoughts, I realize the others are over at the window, watching the spires of the Capitol loom ever closer. The escort claps; Lori squeals; Arlen preens and waves like the pathetic peacock he is.

I flex my fingers. Only a week or so more.


	5. Put on Your Mask

**A/N: Thanks to Number One Fan of Journey for being my only reader/reviewer so far! It means a lot to me, especially since you don't know half of the source material. Hopefully this chapter will be a bit of an entertaining break before we get down to the training sessions. **

~~0~~

_**Dieter von Schwesterkrank, 16, District 8**_

"_Get out!_ You're fired! Leave this instant and don't even _think_ about coming back!"

The hapless assistant stylist wastes no time in complying. No sooner have her high heels clacked over the doorframe than Minette hurls the nearest object – a potted plant – at her retreating form. Fortunately her parting gift misses its mark, but the wall and floor aren't so lucky.

My stylist howls in frustration, fingers digging through her glossy red hair. I almost try and calm her down – it wasn't that big a deal, really, just a few spilt boxes of pins – but think better of it. If there's anything I've learned in the last several hours, it's that interfering with Minette's affairs is, er, hazardous to one's health. Plus, I'd hate to work her up even more.

"Don't just stand there, Sondra, go call an avox to clean up that mess," she snaps, gesturing at the mess of dirt, leaves and shattered porcelain in the hallway. "Heather, stop gawking and brew me a nice pot of my special tea. I'm going to need it."

The two remaining assistants utter prompt "yes, Minette"s and hurry off; one outside, the other to an ornate cabinet at the far end of the room. Looks like I'm alone with my stylist for a while. I definitely don't mind, though. Far from it. That Heather girl kept looking me over one too many times to be comfortable, and present company is far more … pleasurable.

I'd normally call myself a sensible person, but I do believe in love at first sight. After all, what else can account for my grandparents? Hans von Schwesterkrank was a well-off Capitolian soldier; Noisette Tornade was a rebel fighter and about as low on the social ladder as one can get. Nobody knows exactly how they met, but whatever happened was enough for grandfather to completely change his views on the war. He became a double agent, sending messages and smuggling weaponry to her and the other revolutionaries. Neither of them lived to see the end of the Dark Days – the story goes they went out fighting, although I'm starting to wonder if their forbidden love earned them the wrath of their own compatriots. My mom, only a few years old when the war ended, was put into a District 8 orphanage under her father's name. And it all wound up back where it started – with a young von Schwesterkrank in the Capitol, pining after a woman from a vastly different world.

Call me crazy, but I can't help myself. I definitely wasn't expecting this, but when does love ever follow a predictable course? Granted, I doubt she sees me as more than a breathing mannequin, but … well, we've still got a couple of days to get to know each other, right? The thought of many more days after that will be something to keep me going in the arena.

"Now, where was I?" Minette demands after finishing her cup of strongly-scented herbal tea. Her rage seems to have abated by now, so I risk butting in.

"You were looking for pins. See, Heather's got them. You were going to work on my sleeve." Helpfully I indicate the overlong tube of purple fabric.

She casts me a withering glance – at least, I assume she does, because a white satin mask covers all of her face but her narrowed eyes. According to her, it's some kind of statement. The face of the model is irrelevant, she says; it's her clothes that matter. "Are you honestly trying to help me by interrupting my train of thought?"

"No, not at all! Just – uh–"

Minette shakes her head, but at least she doesn't seem angry as she takes the pins from Heather and sets to work. In fact, she actually continues talking to me, albeit in a slightly condescending tone.

"I don't expect you to understand this, Dieter. But, you see, fashion design is a continuous process, one that must flow on unhindered and uninterrupted. It's not just some project to be started and stopped whenever you please. It's like …"

"Like a river?" Heather winks at me, as if she's heard this speech a million times before.

"It's like a river." Minette gives no indication that she heard the girl. "Too many rocks – pointless interruptions, in other words – and its path becomes choppy. That's why I had to fire Emilia back there;some people have no respect for the proper procedure. But now, _now _I can already feel my creativity flowing again, building like a wave on the ocean, surging towards some unseen shore…"

Over Minette's shoulder, Heather makes a spinning motion by her ear. I shake my head at her. She's a nice girl, I suppose, but all practicality, no passion. Can't she sense Minette's love for her craft; how the intensity of her voice mounts with each word? Everybody from Eight knows how to sew, but nobody I've known can c_reate, _not like my stylist. She doesn't just follow patterns or count stitches; she experiments, fantasizes, breathes life into the fabric. It's just like romance, I suppose. You have to be willing to embrace the unanticipated, to philosophize a little, to imbue deeper meaning into the subtleties and coincidences of an otherwise generic world. Especially in unexpected circumstances like this.

"Well, there you are, Dieter," Minette says finally, embroidering the final touch on my suit. "Not a moment too soon; the parade starts in five minutes and they'll be expecting me downstairs."

Heather flushes, watching me pose in front of the mirror. "We've certainly got a fine one this year."

"Yes, I suppose." Minette is dismissive. "But like I said, it's the clothes they'll be looking at. Not the face. The clothes."

With that, she spins on her heel and departs.

Ouch. Well … you know, I can't blame her. She's a fashion designer; of course she's going to think about her creations first, the models second. It's only natural to put the priority on one's art. It doesn't mean she doesn't see anything in me. It doesn't mean she won't. It doesn't mean that she's a grown woman and I'm sixteen and probably going to stay that way forever, right?

And even if it does, is there really any harm in playing pretend while I still can?

_**J.J. Ling, 16, District 8**_

"Ouch!" For the fifth time today, I don't quite manage to bite my lip in time as the stylist jabs me with a pin. My hand leaps up to rub my pricked shoulder. "Sheesh, can't you watch where you're putting those things?"

A peeved sigh is the only response I get. Fine, be like that. You're not the one getting used as a human pincushion here.

At least wanting to see what progress they've made, I risk a glance over my shoulder at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I just manage to catch a flash of pink before the stylist swats me. "Ach, stop moving. You'll ruin the stitches. Be patient; it'll be over in ten."

I barely stifle an exasperated groan. That's what he said half an hour ago. At this rate, I'd sooner have Dieter's psycho-lady for a stylist than this clown.

... Then again, judging by the latest bout of enraged screaming from the next room, maybe not.

After fifteen more agonizingly boring minutes – and that's no exaggeration; I watched the clock the whole time – the stylist finally steps back to appraise his work. My prep team whispers and squeals amongst themselves while he admonishes me not to move. Just when I'm this close to shifting my weight for the heck of it, he throws his hands in the air with an exclamation. "_Voilà! C'est magnifique!_"

Okay, then. Whatever that means, I'm guessing by his tone it's a good thing, so…

"Can I turn around now?"

"Ah, yes, yes. _Mais oui_!"

With a breath of anticipation, I spin around to face the mirror. Looks like my stylist is aiming for the chic, modern angle this year. That's a relief, given some of the wacked-out costumes the District 8 tributes have had to wear in recent years. Probably Dieter's stylist's fault, that. The v-necked pink shirt is cut rather low and its shoulders, cuffs and waist are pleasingly ruffled. Form-fitting jeans hug my legs. The look is completed with bunches of sparkly bracelets, several necklaces, and a black headband that just restrains my wavy blonde hair. It's a good thing I've got a full figure, because this outfit definitely shows off my curves. Wonder if the stylists counted on that, or if they only started planning this out after they saw me at the reaping.

Brrr. I'm hoping for the former. I know I'll have to get used to this pretty quickly, but I don't like the idea of people watching me when I don't know it. Majorly creeps me out. Who knows what else the Capitol's found out about me just by watching the recaps? Thank Panem I didn't cry onstage; otherwise I probably wouldn't have a hope of being sponspred.

"Now, _GiGi_," says the stylist, mispronouncing my name with his odd accent, "we're going to see whether or not the chariots are ready. Wait here and don't move about. I don't want you rumpling up your costume."

Yeah, right; like I'm going to sit still after not budging for three hours. The instant the last of the prep team scoots out the door, I take the chance to stretch my legs a little bit. Fortunately, unlike some of the hideous creations I've seen from past opening ceremonies, this outfit gives me room to walk. I think I'd throw a fit if I had some fussy hobble-skirted dress on.

Thank goodness all this waiting is almost over. I might be a bit of a worrywart in some ways – not without good reason now, obviously – but I find it's a lot easier to keep a cool head when I'm actually _doing _something. Sitting on the train or playing model for the stylists doesn't do much to ease up the tension, even with company around. Dieter's an okay enough guy, but he gets a little boring after a while, especially once he gets tired of hangman. Probably jealous that I kept stumping him. Not my fault he can't spell 'facetious.'

Am I going off on a tangent now? Whoops, can't even keep my own inner rambling straight. Ha ha. Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah, waiting. As I was saying, the whole impending doom thing is a lot easier to handle when you can actually do something about it. Something other than getting stabbed with pins, that is. The chariot ride might be a bit tough – got to seem spunky and fun and pretty much _anything _but weak – but it'll be exciting to try and attract sponsors. Can't say I've ever been in a situation where a bunch of weirdos betting on my life is a desirable thing before! Then, tomorrow, we'll finally get to the training center, which'll be a relief. It'll be handy to learn something beyond smiling for a camera, although I don't really know how much good it'll do me. The interviews will be like the chariots, but more intense; again, I'll need to pull some toughness out of I-don't-know-where to cover up everything that's, well, not so intimidating about myself. And after those comes … well, we'll deal with that when we come to it, won't we? Lots of time before then.

I stop by one of the high-set windows and hoist myself up on a table to peer out at the city. From the eighth floor I have a pretty good view of the streets, all vibrantly illuminated in anticipation of our arrival. The distant din of cheering Capitolians must have been going on this whole time, but I'm only made aware of it now.

"Miss Ling?" One of the prep team ladies pokes her head through the door. "It's time to go down to the-"

At the sight of me kneeling on a tabletop on the other end of the room, she lets out a comically high-pitched scream. "Miss J.J.! Monsieur Traquenard told you not to move! Your costume, it is, it is…"

Adopting a mortified expression, I hop down off my perch and smooth an imaginary wrinkle off of my blouse. "I'd have stayed put, honestly, if it weren't for that crazed fan! Barged in and wouldn't quit pestering me until I told him Monsieur Traquenard had just gone down to the chariots, and he'd better hurry if he wanted his autograph. Sheesh, some security you guys have in here!"

I'd almost laugh at the puzzled look on her face, if that wouldn't give my fib away. Seriously, the woman has one violet plume of an eyebrow cocked up and the other slanted downwards, like she can't decide whether to be suspicious or totally fooled. Apparently at a loss for words, she just tilts her head and leads me off to the elevator while quietly chastising my 'lack of respect' for 'the good stylist's orders.'

Little white lies like that come naturally to me. Life in a textile factory can get pretty boring, so what's the harm in stirring up some excitement every once in a while? Sure, it might not be entirely honest, and yeah, it makes some people mad if I get caught. But it's not like I'm hurting anybody. I'm just being … creative.

And, if anything, those lies are going to keep me alive in the arena. See, I figure to be a good tribute, you have to be a pretty good actress, too. The real J.J. might be a cool person, but mere likeability doesn't really translate to much of a threat in the other tributes' eyes. Give them a smirk and a leer, and even if it's a mask, they'll start to believe it. So I'm going to exaggerate, and I might as well start practicing now.

I tune back into prep team lady's ramble just as the lift doors glide open to reveal a huge underground room. She has time to hiss that I'm lucky I didn't get a stylist as strict as Dieter's before the flood of sound drowns her out. Tributes and staff are everywhere, some decked out in the most ridiculous costumes I've ever seen, while a row of chariots and horses waits expectantly near a gigantic door. I swivel my head this way and that, eager to get a good look at the competition before they can size me up.

I'm pretty sure the slender blonde glittering with diamonds is the girl from 1, which makes the brunet beside her another Career. If you ask me, he looks a little_ too_ excited for this to all get started. The Sevens and Tens are easy to pick out thanks to their costumes – seriously, you'd think they'd get tired of lumberjacks and cowboys after a while – and the Ten guy is definitely easy on the eyes. He's casting glances at the Nine girl, who seems to be talking to herself. Probably anxious. You can't blame her. This wouldn't be half as nerve-wracking if the Capitol would just get on with it already.

"Ah, _GiGi! _There you are!" Right on cue, my stylist appears, with Dieter and his crew close behind. My district partner looks nice in a flamboyant lavender suit, and I have the feeling one of his blushing prep team members more than agrees.

"Everything's ready?" inquires Dieter's stylist sharply. After a few assurances, we head over to our chariot and clamber aboard, the Capitolians shouting out last-minute fashion tips all the way. The muted beginnings of Panem's anthem from outside confirm we're just on time.

All right. Time for act one. Show them you mean business.

Dieter already looks a little queasy, so I hate to pick on him, but he's the only tribute available at the moment. More the point, if I put this off any longer then I'll never stop. I notice him glancing repeatedly at his stylist, put two and two together, and jump upon the chance.

"Hey, Dieter? You wanna know what I heard?"

"What?"

"Well, my prep team was gossiping a bit about your prep team, and you know, I couldn't help but listen in, since it was totally boring just standing there, and…"

"Yeah, and?"

"Oh, nothing." I tilt my head and sneer. "Just that your stylist has the hots for the District Ten boy."

His splutter is drowned out by the roar of the crowd as the doors open and we're propelled into blinding light. I freeze the nasty triumph on my face and can only hope that it's the crowd's first impression of me. Here's J.J. Ling, people – fierce, gutsy and ready to kick some ass.

That's more than I can say for the scared girl underneath.


End file.
